on sunday it rains

and all i want to do is pick flowers, and make myself a bed

on which to sleep

i don’t want to be comfortable, stems and thorns

poking at my calves and thighs

i want to look beautiful when i suffer

and leave behind ashes in my wake

on sunday it rains

and i want it to be perfect, just for you

i want the movie credits to roll when i snap my fingers

i want champagne and chocolate fondue

i want to throw a fit and make the world

fucking cower before my rage

want to be three years old and stupid

forever incapable of acting my age

on sunday, the air is thick with smoke

from some fire off the coast

and seasons change but they’re not the same

and i can dig my childhood memories

a premature grave, i can sit

and watch, and wait

stew in my futility

on sunday, it pours, and i run barefoot down the road

‘til the soles of my feet ache

because decisions aren’t easy

because i don’t trust you anymore, i don’t know

what to say

on sunday, i want to beg you

to pull out my lungs and press them like flowers

tell me how beautiful they are

tell me that just this once i did good

i talked just like a real person, i did the dance too

and maybe someday, i’ll get so good

that you won’t even notice what i’m trying to do

on sunday my throat aches

from screaming in the mirror

as i watch the river rise so high it’s gonna flood the road

i don’t know why i’m sad

i don’t know what i’m grieving

but it’s better than nothing, i suppose

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